Unwritten
by Sybl Angelkat
Summary: A lost DeChagny descendant awakens the spirit of the Phantom over a hundred years after the fire. The key to his release is an unfinished song…has he waited all these years in vain?
1. Chapter 1

Unwritten

By Sybl Angelkat

© Leroux, Kay, and Webber. My OC is all I own.

Alternate Universe

Rating: T

Phantom Version: hybrid of different ones…I borrowed a few of the ideas off of a game I found recently called "Mystery Legends: Phantom of the Opera". This one has a full face mask but is younger than the book versions. Appearance may be a bit more canonized—I haven't decided yet.

Pairings: R/C, undecided on whether I will do E/OW.

Summary: A lost DeChagny descendant awakens the spirit of the Phantom over a hundred years after the fire. The key to his release is an unfinished song…has he waited all these years in vain?

The burned out opera house loomed in front of me. The shell of the building had stood silent for many years, but I did not believe for a second that it was empty. The smell of smoke and ash still lingered here after all these years. It had been over a century since anyone had gone inside. Clutching my flashlight and the heavy skeleton key, I entered.

Everything had changed. I paused for a moment to catch my breath. I was brought up in a foster home. My foster parents had decided to adopt me on a permanent basis. I still kept in contact with them frequently. Then, on my twenty-third birthday (I was late moving out of the house…) my mother gave me a sealed package that looked older than great-granddad. It had been broken open and resealed several times. There were letters written from mother to daughter dating all the way back to 1896. The oldest one was from my true great-grandmother, Christine DeChagny.

I read all of the letters in quick succession. There was a story about an opera house in Paris, a fire, a ghost…this ghost had supposedly kidnapped my great-grandmother. Due to some feelings of sympathy for the ghost, the property had remained in the DeChagny family though none dared to visit it personally. In old-fashioned cursive, she stated: _Beware of the fallen angel._

The letters thereafter speculated on whether or not this ghost was real or just a myth. Many of them cautioned against selling the opera house for fear that the property was cursed and would bring misfortune on the descendants if they did so. In all of the letters, the date was on each girl's twenty-third birthday. Christine herself explained that she had only been seventeen when the events had taken place and she wanted all of us to be fully grown women before we were forced to face the truth. My grandmother and mother had kept with the tradition. My real mother had not lived long enough to tell me in person.

Inside the pouch was the old iron key, a map of the place, and the deed. I had those things inside my backpack right now. I thrust the key into the lock. My stomach squirmed.

I had been brought up in a very sheltered, very restricted life. I never felt free to express who I was and I had never felt as though I truly belonged. A thrilled shudder crept up my spine as I clicked on my flashlight and stepped inside. I felt like a child again.

I nearly screamed when I saw the rats—I expected them, but I was still nervous around them. They appeared to have the same feelings and skittered away from me. The pale yellow beam of the flashlight danced around in the almost complete darkness. The place had once been very beautiful, I could see. Even under the layers of cobwebs, dust, and soot, I admired the golden statues and ornate trimmings.

There was a narrow corridor that led to the main entrance. I supposed it was a servant's passage. Here, there was the barest hint of daylight coming in. I aimed my digital camera and flooded the place with brief flashes of light. Since I couldn't see it very well with my own eyes, I admired the images on my camera screen where they had been better lit. I would definitely post these online when I got back to the little apartment…

I found the theater. I saw the chandelier, several times bigger than I was, still laying where it had fallen. I saw the blackened seats that had once been red and luxuriously soft. I saw the stage. All at once, I knew it hadn't been a myth. I still did not believe in ghosts, but the Phantom of the Opera had once existed as a man. It was all there: the platform they had been standing on, the trap door, still open, and, I noted with interest, the mask.

I pried it from the bed of dust and ash and shook away the debris. The black mask was designed to hide his deformities completely. It would have given him a mysterious and sleek appearance, I supposed, and its practical purpose might have been forgotten. I ran my fingers along the inside and tried to imagine what the face under this mask had truly looked like. I imagined my great grandmother, long gone before I ever saw her in person, as a young woman. I had inherited her dark brown hair and eyes, but that was about it. I was short and pudgy as opposed to the lithe ballet dancer she must have been. Most women have an hourglass shape—I jokingly refer to my figure as two hours. I was very much in love with music, but I preferred to work behind the scenes rather than being the center of attention.

I pulled the mask down over my own face. No one would see me acting silly, right? Right! After being brought up in such a serious environment, I had developed a very silly personality.

I sang out a note or two and pretended to swish a cape that wasn't there. It must have been fun to blend with the shadows, to slip by totally unnoticed. I can't dance worth a crap, so I pranced and skipped around.

Then, the rotting floorboards gave way with a sinister crunch. Gasping, I tried to grab at something I could hold onto, but it didn't happen. My one-ninety-six pounds had been the last straw for this part of the stage. I plunged into darkness and cursed gravity on the way down.

_Did I just hear organ music?_

WHUMP!


	2. Chapter 2

_For many years, I had drifted. Above me was the light that I could not reach. Below me was the darkness that I somehow feared. All around me was a cold, gray mist. I hung suspended, trapped. I was nothing more than a package of memories and feelings. I had only yesterday, for tomorrow ceased to exist. Sometimes, the mist would lift just enough for me to realize that my home was falling down around me even more as it aged. Resigned to my fate, I stayed where I was. A third light appeared, a dim orange. I was pulled towards it before I could even think about it._

The black mask had fallen several feet away from the unconscious girl. Clinging to it was a droplet of blood from a scratch on her forehead. The small droplet of blood fell to the stone and seemed to sizzle.

Another drop of blood oozed out of a crack in the tile. If she had been conscious, she would have screamed, for it was as though the floor had started to bleed. The small droplet had turned into a pool. Out of the center of the blood rose a human heart. The thing shuddered as if trying to beat, but it gave up. Muscles, organs, bones, and finally skin formed and the pool of blood was drawn into the reanimating body. After a few seconds, the amber eyes behind the mask opened.

The Phantom of the Opera was here again.

Much to his dismay, he still wore the same clothes he'd been wearing on the fateful night of the fire. Testing his strength, he sat up slowly. After so many years of being a vaporous form, his body felt strange and heavy to him. It was a struggle to get his limbs to move at first. One hand clutched over his chest detected no heartbeat. How was it that he was still alive, then?

He noticed the fallen girl some distance away and staggered over to her. Anger flared up in him. Someone had invaded _his_ home!

He flipped her over roughly, but froze when he saw her face.

"Christine…" he choked out in a heartbreaking whisper. His breath froze in his lungs (though he doubted he really needed to breathe). A gray-white hand touched her face, trembling.

_This_ was why he hadn't crossed over to meet his judgment, he realized. She had come back to him…after all this time…

Sliding both arms under her, he struggled to lift her. She was quite a bit heavier than he remembered…it was either that she weighed more or his lack of strength. Just now, he wasn't certain. He was only certain of one thing: she would not get away from him again. He had waited over a hundred years for her return…

He placed her carefully in the boat. The candles that had not been lit for quite some time guttered to life as they passed. For the entire journey to his home, the only sound was his own labored breathing. Though he was no longer alive and no longer needed oxygen, his emotions affected his lungs nonetheless. A spark of hope made his stomach clench painfully, but he suppressed it. Now was not the time to get emotional, he reminded himself. His love was badly hurt and he needed to tend to her.

The lair was dark. He had not seen it for quite some time. The candles guttered to life here, too, from the sheer supernatural force of his presence. He lifted the dark-haired girl out of the boat and carried her up to the swan bed. It amazed him that everything here was untouched by time, but he supposed it was from the curse that held him trapped between the worlds.

Upon his death, Erik had sworn he would never leave this opera house. He had lived out the rest of his days here, though he had died quickly after The Incident. There was no explanation of his failing health other than his loss of will to survive—he had developed a nasty cough and his health had gone downhill after that. After seeing the smear of blood on his hand, he knew he would not live much longer. He had closed his eyes and drifted away with Christine's ring still clutched in his hand.

The coffin was in the corner of the room near his organ. Erik glanced at it with a sense of unease. Knowing he was too corporeal to be nothing but a spirit, he wondered if his corpse was still there. He lifted the heavy lid and braced himself for what he might see.

The coffin was empty except for the ring and the sheet music he'd been clasping in his cold hands. It was an unfinished score he'd been composing at the time of his death—the notes quite literally represented his emotional roller coaster. There was tumultuous anger, the sharp, acute pain of his grief, the flat depression he'd sunk into, and the longing that had persisted for years. The very last part of it was left unfinished—it was what he'd intended to write upon Christine's return. With a shaking hand, he lifted the supernaturally preserved paper out of its macabre container and placed on the organ's music shelf.


	3. Chapter 3

The pain in her head was sickening. Her dark eyes fluttered and one hand pressed against her pounding skull. As the rest of her sensations came back, she realized that she hurt all over. Her other hand moved to brace against the floor to sit up, but she did not find cold, hard, unforgiving stone. Shocked, she poked curiously at the surface she was laying on. It was soft, like satin. Cautiously, she started to sit up only to have someone push her back over.

"Stay there," the dark voice ordered.

Cautiously, she allowed her gaze to travel to her left where the pressure had come from. She could have sworn her heart stopped for a moment.

_I'm dreaming. I have to be._

A pair of glowing amber eyes met her gaze from behind the black mask. A hat shaded the artificial face in even further, leaving her with nothing more than a silhouette to examine. The hand on her shoulder retreated reluctantly.

"Where am I?" she asked wearily.

"You are home," the dark figure said simply, "where you belong."

_If you say so…_she thought. The pain was getting to be too much. She let her eyes slide closed. Cool fingertips massaged some sort of salve over the cut and the pain began to subside.

"Rest now," the voice whispered, "Erik will take care of you…"

_Erik?_ She wondered just before she fell asleep.

The infamous Opera Ghost settled in next to her. She was pale from pain, but still beautiful. It didn't escape his notice, however, that some things had changed. Her style of dress, for one thing. He realized there was quite a bit more to her now than there once had been. Did she not dance anymore? The extra weight wasn't ugly, it was just so different…he doubted he could ever think she was ugly. The shape of her face was different as well; it had gone from being heart-shaped to almost oval. She wore her hair shorter now and her hair was darker, if he wasn't mistaken. Her presence was different as well…

A dark, invasive thought clouded his mind. What if she wasn't Christine after all?

No, he wouldn't allow himself to think that. She looked different, yes, but she was older. It happened sometimes…

He longed to kiss her. He longed to brush his lips over her cheek. He wanted to pull her into his arms and feel her breathe, but he didn't. This time, he vowed, she would come to him willingly. He settled for stroking her hair and watching her sleep. When she woke, they would get caught up on old times. He hoped she'd feel better…

He glanced around his home and shook his head in dismay. This would never do. It was perfect for a ghost like him, but not for living flesh. With one last glance at the bed, he rose and got to work.

She would need food and water. These he would have to get from the surface…cringing inwardly, he spread more blankets over her so that she wouldn't get a chill from the cold, damp environment while he was gone. Hoping that he would be back before she woke, he ventured up to the surface.

Trembling, shaking, he shied away from the draft of warmer air. For one dizzying second, he contemplated retreating back into the depths. He remembered his angel and scolded himself for being afraid.

He could hardly believe his eyes. The city had changed so much…gone were horses and carriages. Instead, the fast-moving cars raced past. His pulse would have quickened if he'd had one. The old buildings were mixed with the new. It was beautiful and tragic all at the same time.

People walked right past him, appearing not to even notice him. He saw several devices he did not recognize in their hands. A few gave him questioning looks, but they didn't flee in terror the way he half-expected. Though that was somewhat of a comfort, he didn't dare relax.

Nearly an hour later, he had everything he thought his angel would need. Most of it was stolen, unfortunately, but he didn't have the money. The currency had also changed since he'd been alive last, but he was crafty enough not to get caught. The journey had taken a toll on his nerves and he breathed a sigh of relief once he was back inside.

The sight of all the electronics and computers had unnerved him. Gone was the aesthetic of the past…everything was cold and industrial looking. Bright colors flashed on computer and TV screens everywhere. Everyone seemed to be preoccupied with something. The traffic, the noise, and the rush made it hard to think.

He reached his lair and relished the quiet here underground where the sounds of the city could not reach. Digging items out of the white plastic bags, he glanced over at the sleeping girl and was relieved to see that she was still asleep. She didn't appear to have moved since he had gone. Moments later, the scent of hot tea wafted through the caverns. His fingers itched to play his organ again, but he wondered if he would wake her. Instead, he retrieved his ancient violin from its case and tucked it under his chin. If he closed his eyes, he could almost go back in time…

_She had arrived at the opera house as a child, confused and alone. He supposed he had taken pity on her then because he knew what it was like to have no one. Ordinarily, children repulsed him and he thought of them as an unneeded nuisance. Madame Giry was careful to keep young Meg as far away from him as she could…she feared his explosive temper. _

_ Erik had heard the young girl crying in the chapel late one night as he patrolled the opera house. At first, he regarded her with indifference. Then, somewhere, that small, sweet voice had tugged at him. _

_ "You said you would send me an angel of music, Father…where is it? I don't mean to rush you, but I'm so lonely without you," Christine had pleaded while on her knees. She had dissolved into tears that promptly stopped when she heard the violin music._

_ "Father?" she asked, trembling._

_ "No…it is I," Erik had said softly, "I am your Angel of Music."_

_ Christine had looked all around the room, but she saw no one. _

_ "You need not look for me, Christine, for I am always with you," Erik told her._

_ His motives had been purely selfish: Carlotta's voice grated on his nerves and was becoming rougher and more out-of-tune with age. He decided to train Christine before some stuffed shirt wrecked her voice permanently. She had a good ear and was a fast learner. Miraculously enough, she never equated the Opera Ghost with the Angel of Music until he revealed himself to her many years later. He was a strict taskmaster and had a no-nonsense attitude. A mixture of gratitude and fear kept her from ever testing his limits. Then, when she grew into a young woman, Erik began to see her as more than the child that he and Madame Giry had raised…_

_ She was his key to freedom. She loved him. She trusted him. Though he could get completely intoxicated by her voice, it wasn't enough. He wanted __**all**__ of her, needed all of her. That was when he began to take risks…_

He stopped playing in surprise when he saw her stir.

"Don't stop, it's beautiful!" she sighed, resting her chin on her arm. She still looked out of it, but her color was better.

Who was he to refuse? Smiling beneath the mask where she could not see his pleasure, he drew the bow over the strings once more.


	4. Chapter 4

I watched him carefully as he played his violin. Though it was dark, I could tell when his eyes closed because the sharp amber glow would disappear. He conveyed his emotions so strongly through the music that I could actually feel things. Despair, heartache, hope, love. I didn't realize I'd climbed out of bed and moved toward him until his eyes opened again and he regarded me warily. I saw the tension in his muscles and the conflict in his eyes. I imagined underneath that expressionless mask that his mouth was tight as well. His violin sang out one last mewling note before he lowered it to his lap. It looked to be a very old instrument…I wondered how long he'd had it and how it had come to his hands. Even in the dim light, I could see how pale his hands were. His hands were very skeletal as if the skin had been stretched as tightly as possible over the slender bones. Normally, I'd have been disgusted by such a thing, but there was a certain delicacy to them. The long, slender shape, I'd been told, was the mark of a musician's hands. Though skeletal, the power coursed through them. I imagined it as electric blue sparks appearing inside the joints.

My stomach rumbled violently, breaking the spell. He swept past me into the next room and I was left wondering if I'd done something to make him so uncomfortable. His body was as tight as a stretched rubber band ready to go flying across the room. It bothered me more than I cared to admit that I couldn't see his face, but curiosity was rapidly overcoming my nerves. This situation was so strange…

When I found him, he was already at work. We were in a kitchen area, though everything here looked remarkably old-fashioned. He said nothing as he moved. Awkwardly, I sat down at the table. I have never been much of a cook and I wondered if I was going to get in the way if I tried to help. Whatever it was that he was making smelled really good and my head started to ache again, this time from hunger. I forgot my manners completely and dug in the instant he put the plate down. He did not comment on my appetite or my speed, which was a welcome relief. My mother always complained that I should slow down and that I ate too much too fast. The dish was something I did not recognize, but it tasted better than Ramen for the sixth night in a row. I realized that my masked caretaker did not eat. He had gone somewhere else and I hadn't even noticed. A pang of guilt attacked my stomach. I could hear music playing—this time, it was what sounded like a pipe organ. I followed the sound back to the room I'd come from.

Now that I was more aware of my surroundings, I began to notice more things. I cringed when I saw the coffin in the dark corner. Then, I saw the ornate swan bed with the pile of blankets I'd been sleeping in. The next thing I saw was the masked man at the organ. Something about this seemed familiar, but I wasn't sure what it was. He cringed when I was still at arm's length away from him and raised his arm as if expecting me to strike him.

"What's the matter?" I asked, dumbfounded. Slowly, he lowered his hand from his face.

"You startled me."

The tension hung around us like a curtain of cobwebs.

"Thanks for dinner," I said, genuinely grateful, "I really should go home…they'll be expecting me at work tomorrow…I don't really know exactly where here is."

"You don't recognize it?"

His tone held a lot of doubt. Suspicion caused his eyes to darken. I wondered how it was that his eyes could be so unnaturally bright. I chalked up the illusion that they were glowing to the bump I'd received.

"No, I don't," I admitted, "if you could just show me the way out, I'd appreciate it."

The anger that blazed in his gaze suddenly threw me off guard. I backed away as the scrape from his bench seemed to scream in the silence.

"I'm sure you would," he said acidly, "you were happy enough to get out last time."

"What?" I asked, puzzled.

"Where is he, Christine? Is he waiting for you to return?"

I stared.

"First, you must have me confused with someone else. My name isn't Christine, it's Abby. Second, I don't know who this 'he' is. Third, I can assure you I've never been here before."

My calmness must have surprised him. His oddly bright eyes seemed to flicker before they blazed steadily. One hand brushed the side of my neck.

"Then why does your pulse tell me differently?" he demanded.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because you yelled at me?" I said irritably.

He withdrew his hand. I felt a little shudder run through me—his hands were _freezing._ Then again, I'd probably be frozen too if I stayed down here all the time.

"You really don't remember?"

His voice was a growl, yet his head tilted like that of a curious puppy. It was an odd combination.

"I'm certain I've never seen you before…though it's hard to tell with the mask," I commented, "I'm sure I'd have remembered your eyes."

I felt, rather than saw, his shock. At the same time, I wracked my brain and tried to figure out why I still felt recognition. That name…Christine…

Two and two clicked together, yet they didn't.

"Christine…was my great-grandmother's name," I said slowly.

He began to pace back and forth in front of me.

"There was this old story that came with our family," I continued cautiously, "about a ghost…a ghost who was really a man…but it was over a hundred years ago. The mask and the clothes remind me of the story, but…"

He stopped abruptly and turned to face me.

"But I would have to be a hundred years old," he filled in. I nodded. Without waiting for him to continue, I moved to retrieve my bag. I would find my own way out. Though he had been friendly up to this point, I didn't want to wear out my welcome. Something inside me longed to get out…back where there was sunshine and warmth. I heard him behind me as I retrieved the bag from the floor beside the bed.

"And just where do you think you're going?" There was humor in his voice—dark humor. My stomach did a cartwheel.

"I told you," I said firmly, "I'm going home. I appreciate your hospitality and not leaving me there where the rats could get me, but I'm clearly not the person you're looking for."

I slipped my arms into the straps of the backpack. Unfortunately, he was right in the way and I couldn't get past him. _Crap…_

"Maybe you don't remember, but I do," he said, voice low, "I have lived a cursed existence, unable to leave or to pass into the next world for the last century…can you not see that fate has brought you here? How else would you have come back? You're even wearing my ring."

I glanced down out of reflex. The ancient-looking gold ring glittered dimly in the candlelight.

"It was in the packet with the rest of the letters," I sighed, "I thought it was pretty. Here—I didn't realize it was yours."

I slipped the ring off my finger and held it out to him, but he made no motion to take it. His eyes_ flashed_—so help me God, I was_ not_ hallucinating this time—and I knew he was grinning behind the black mask. My blood chilled.

"It looks much better on your finger, my angel. You have forgotten…the years have stolen you away from me…sapped your strength, dulled your mind and your ear to the music…but I, _I alone_ will bring you back to your glory just as you have awakened me from my cursed half-sleep. Together, we will begin again. And _this time,_ there is no foolish young Vicomte to interfere!"

His rage toward whomever this "Vicomte" could have been was so strong that I dropped to my knees from the sheer force. I suddenly felt drained and sick to my stomach. An odd choking sensation seized my throat and I clutched both hands to it.

"Stop! You're hurting me!" I gasped. I'm not sure why I said it, but I'm glad I did. His rage was a nightmarishly tangible thing that slammed into my mind over and over like a boxer's right hook.

The edges of my vision started to darken just before I felt hands lifting me from the floor. The cold, smooth surface of the mask brushed my cheek. Where there had been rage just moments before, there was now sadness and fear. I felt his presence in my mind and wondered if I was losing mine. He lifted me back onto the bed and I felt him tremble.

"Stay," he ordered shakily, quickly sweeping out of the room.

I did, for I was suddenly too scared to move. If he had hurt me without even touching me, I now had a very serious problem on my hands…


	5. Chapter 5

Erik took several deep gasps of the damp underground air as soon as he was out of the room. His temper, as usual, had gotten the best of him. Only now, the consequences were now much more severe…he had imagined himself strangling Raoul and instead had hurt his angel. Guilt was there, but so was more anger. He was angry at her for leaving and angry at himself for having such an uncontrollable temper. He was angry at his mother for giving birth to him and angry with God for cursing his existence.

But he must be calm…

Once he was certain that he wouldn't start shouting and envisioning Raoul's neck in his hands, he returned to the room. His angel's face was very white. She stared at him with those big, dark eyes. She hadn't seemed frightened of him before, but she was now. _Damn it!_

"I'm not Christine," she said shakily, "and I can prove it…"

She drew the ancient-looking letter out of the packet and handed it to him. She watched his eyes move as he read. She gave him all the other letters as well. After a long and uncomfortable silence, he lowered the papers.

"Not Christine," he said, the disappointment heavy in his voice, "but you do have her blood in you…Daae blood as well as the cursed DeChagny blood."

Abby squirmed uncomfortably. He sounded as though he would cry any second.

"I'm sorry," she said awkwardly, unsure of what else to say.

"I have waited in vain," he said quietly, "she really is gone…"

Abby ventured off of the bed for the second time, hoping he wouldn't have another mood swing. She conjured up the courage to finally say it.

"Then you are him…the Opera Ghost that she wrote about?"

A barely perceptible nod came from him.

"You can go now, can't you? If you know she's not coming back?" Abby asked.

"No. It's not that simple."

"You can't possibly want to stay down here all by yourself," she objected, "don't you have friends and family waiting on the other side?"

His look silenced her for a moment.

"Don't you think if I had someone waiting for me that I wouldn't have taken such drastic measures?"

He sounded furious. He sounded hurt. Abby instinctively backed away from him, but the shock wave of fury didn't come. It seemed that he was really putting some effort into not hurting her again.

"Okay…so what do you think we need to do?" she asked.

He stared at her with those eyes glowing like embers.

"We? Exactly what power do you possess to send me away, Mademoiselle?"

He had her there. Though she owned the opera house in the legal sense, she couldn't make him leave if he was truly a ghost. He would just come back and cause trouble.

"It's not like that," she backpedaled, "it's that you seem very unhappy and I think you'd feel better if you could cross over."

Erik studied the page that she'd subconsciously held in her hand. Even from this distance, he could tell it was the deed to the opera house. He ought to know—he'd been there when the original had been signed by Charles Garnier. His mind began to put together pieces very quickly.

"You have legal ownership of this opera house due to an inheritance, correct?"

Erik was now speaking aloud his thoughts more than to Abby.

"But I am the one that truly owns it…I helped to design it. I know everything about it…powerful knowledge that could either help you or hinder you. I know how to run it. I know how to make it come back to life, but my present state necessitates that I work with someone on the outside. Perhaps if the opera house is restored, my work here would be finished."

Abby looked down at the deed in her hand.

"What on earth am I going to do with a burnt-out old building, anyway? I had plans to sell the property," she commented.

For a split second, the look on Erik's face frightened her. She felt him wrestle the anger back down. His expression was cool, calculating. This, she had heard, was when the opera ghost was most dangerous.

"Yes…well, the land is quite valuable by itself," he said coolly, "but there isn't much value to a burned-out shell of a building. If they destroyed it, God forbid, there would be a great deal more of a cost. Think about it—the underground lake that serves to prevent flooding, all the tunnels that could collapse if the structure is disturbed…it would cost you more than if you restored it."

He was thinking very much like a man and men thought in logical terms. The woman in Abby could see a different side, however. The Garnier Opera House was Erik's baby and he couldn't bear to see it destroyed any worse than it already was. Though she'd held his acquaintance for only a few hours, she pitied him. The conservative side of her that her foster parents had tried to cultivate all these years said to leave Erik behind, bulldoze the place, and let that be the end of it.

Her sense of adventure, however, had other plans. She thought about her small apartment that leaked every time it rained and seemed to attract roaches like peanut butter. She thought about her dead-end job as a waitress at a local buffet restaurant…how she hated it. She had a bachelor of art degree that was gathering dust due to the poor economy. She had traveled all the way to Paris this past month because she knew it was her last chance to escape the dead-end-life-trap. Her inheritance money would only last her so long and then she'd be right back where she started.

_God, please don't let this be a mistake,_ she prayed silently.

"I don't usually make business deals with women because they are ruled by emotion, but we are in a rather unusual predicament," he commented.

Abby felt slightly insulted, but she tried to remind herself of what she had learned about Erik through the letters. Women, she remembered, had all reacted so strongly to him that he couldn't think of them as logical beings. She would have to teach him that they weren't all like that.

"All right then," she said reluctantly, "but please promise me ahead of time you won't kill anyone."

"I will promise to the best of my ability," he warned her, "and you must promise not to sell the opera house or reveal my existence."

"Fine with me. I'll say you're a contractor or something."

"You will listen?"

"As far as the opera house itself and the actors are concerned," she warned him.

They talked for several minutes about the particulars of the arrangements. Abby scribbled them down on the back of a blank music sheet. Once they had sorted everything out, she reread everything out loud. Her signature at the bottom was signed in neat cursive.

Erik did not list a last name. His childlike hand simply wrote "Erik". Much to Abby's shock, the letters on the page glowed for just a moment before returning to normal.

"How did you do that?" Abby asked.

"It wasn't me."

She stared for a moment.

_As God as my witness, I will never watch scary movies again._

She nearly jumped out of her skin when an ancient grandfather clock chimed eerily.

"It is late," Erik remarked, "I suppose you'll want to go back to where you're staying."

"Yeah…at least until we get the rats under control," she said uneasily.

He rose from the table they'd been sitting at.

"Very well," he said irritably, "but I expect you back here tomorrow morning."

There was no tangible threat that came afterward, but Abby knew better than to assume he wouldn't do something. The _or else_, Christine had emphasized, came with the territory.

"What time?"

He helped her into the boat.

"No later than ten. I shall be waiting."

She drew herself a map on the faded floor plans of the opera house of how to get back to the surface should she ever need to go without Erik. She didn't want to depend on him more than was necessary. He watched her sketching with a critical eye, but made no comments. Underneath his moodiness and resentment that she wasn't Christine, she could sense his uneasiness. He was nervous about this venture just as she was.

They came to the door she'd come through after what seemed like an eternity of silence. He watched her move down the sidewalk a little way before closing and locking the door.

Abby glanced back over her shoulder before she sprinted back to the hotel. Tomorrow, she would wake and find this all a dream. She _had to._


	6. Chapter 6

Once the girl was gone, I had some time to collect my chaotic thoughts. At first, I had simply been in shock. The girl, though she favored Christine in many ways, was not my Christine. My Christine was gone…gone forever. Yet, she wasn't…she lived on through her blood descendant, Abby.

An odd pang haunted me. It was an odd thing to wonder, but part of me wondered if she'd have been one of _my_ descendants if that fool of a Vicomte hadn't stolen Christine's heart. Despite my irritation with my current situation, I didn't view it as hopeless. She had only become frightened when my rage had assaulted her. She hadn't asked me to remove my mask and she hadn't tried to touch me.

I wondered how much she knew about me.

While she was gone, I moved about the opera house. The structure itself seemed intact—there was damage to the ceiling where the chandelier had pulled loose and several broken windows. Most of the damage, however, seemed largely cosmetic. I stared up at the ceiling where the large hole gaped like a wound. Guilt chewed away at my insides. I reached out a hand to touch the frayed edges of wood and the shreds of rope.

Suddenly, I realized with a jolt where I was. I looked down.

I was floating.

If my dead heart had still been beating, it would have thundered. My head was within arm's reach of the damaged, blackened ceiling where a magnificent mural of Heaven had once been. I was far above the burned chairs and the ash-coated stage. A bittersweet joy filled me at appearing so weightless. I glanced over at Box Five, my favorite viewing place, and willed myself to go there. Within a few seconds, I was sitting on the edge.

_What else can I do?_

I tried to remember everything about ghosts that I'd read about and seen in plays. I reached out to touch the singed velvet curtain and my seemingly solid hand passed right through it. It was a very odd sensation to say the least…I could actually feel the material _inside_ my hand. Concentrating, I stepped forward. This was even stranger…I did not feel as though I had passed through wood. I felt as though the wood had passed through me. A wild burst of insane-sounding laughter escaped my mouth. Oh, how ironic this was…I was now a _true_ phantom! How much easier would it be to run this opera house with these abilities?

Floating/flying longer distances took more effort and I felt fatigued after doing so. I sailed off of the edge of Box Four to the stage. Refusing to look at the platform still left over from Don Juan Triumphant, I headed into the dressing room. After scrubbing enough dust off of a mirror to see my reflection, I focused my energy on a different trick. My masked reflection stared back at me. As I concentrated, my solid form became smoky and transparent. I was unable to disappear completely yet, but I was confident that I would eventually do so with practice. I smiled as I imagined my new business partner's face at seeing this. It was refreshing to see a woman with a stronger constitution for a change…

I tried to see what else I was capable of. After a few attempts, I was able to light a candle across the room with my thoughts. Remembering what I had done to Abby earlier, I glanced at a shelf nearby. Remembering my rage, I imagined pushing the shelf over. It trembled, but did not move any further. I imagined Raoul being present with all of his hired soldiers. I remembered the audience's shocked reaction when Christine ripped my mask off. My eyes were closed, so I only vaguely heard the scraping of wood against wood. I allowed the grief and the fury to surface fully until there were enraged tears heating up the confines of my mask. A roar similar to a wounded lion's escaped my throat just as the shelf broke apart into splinters. Gasping, panting, and sweating, I sat down and stared at the mess I'd made. The catharsis left me weak and shaky.

Yes, I would have to work on that. Perhaps if I learned to control that raw energy, I wouldn't accidentally injure Abby anymore. I would need to rest first…I felt dizzy. I stayed still for a few minutes so that my strength would return. Then, I descended to my home.

My house was bathed in candlelight. It was a welcome sight after all I'd experienced upstairs. I made a sweeping motion with my hand and the gate I'd made from old organ pipes creaked open. Though it was unlikely that anyone would come down here, I locked it behind me. The stone walls of my house had the better songs I had written carved into the bricks. I closed the front door behind me.

How odd that I would be this restless and this tired at the same time…I stayed in my chair in the sitting room all of five seconds. Though there was still food left over from where I'd fed Abby, I had no appetite for it. The only thing left was to give in to the curiosity that nagged me since I'd been awakened.

I moved toward the back of the house where the bathroom was. Contrary to popular belief, I did possess a full-length mirror where I inspected my clothing. While I waited for some bath water to heat, I began to strip away everything.

I had already seen my own hands and knew that they had a corpse-like grayish tint to them, so I was hardly surprised at all of my skin being that color. I have always had the appearance of a starved man, but my ribs were sticking out more than usual. I hadn't realized how ill I'd been when I died. No one had seen me undressed for many years, so most of them were unaware that my deformity didn't stop at my face. There were areas where my skin was so thin that the veins were visible. Patches of discolored and wrinkled flesh marred my "bad" side. Scars from the gypsy-inflicted punishments still showed plainly, making it worse. Scars from lashings across my back had gone from pink puffy lines to dark gray. In places, they mingled with the flesh that had been marked from my birth. I had seen some of these malformations in newborns and didn't doubt that my mother had attempted to be rid of me before I'd been born. I was fortunate only in the respect that it was cosmetic and didn't make my limbs useless.

I had saved my mask for last. The water was almost hot enough. The limp strands of dark hair were mussed from where I had worn the hood up on my cloak. I lifted away the string around the back that held it into place and slowly lowered it. I took care to place it on the counter before I looked.

Nothing was new except the coloring. The stub of one ear that hadn't finished forming in the womb was still the same, as was the barely-formed nose; it was flattened and barely existed beyond the tear-drop shaped holes that functioned as nostrils. The skin on my cheeks was stretched tightly over the bones and sunk in around my jaws—the outline of my teeth was visible in places. It was as though someone had wrapped a cloth there and then allowed it to shrink. My eyes were so deeply set that it gave my face a skull-like appearance. The reason, I supposed, that they had always been frightened of me was because I literally reminded them of death. Perhaps the hardest thing for them to look at was one particular place on the side of my head. There was a deeply grooved, wrinkled mass that stretched from the side of my forehead down to my chin. It didn't stick out very much farther than the rest of my face, but the texture of it repulsed many. As with a scar, the skin was shiny there. It was rubbery and had the texture of gelatin. I knew it was only skin, but someone had started the rumor that my brains were spilling out of my skull and down the side of my face. The rumor had persisted and Christine had nearly thrown up when she'd seen it. It certainly hadn't helped that the vessels inside would sometimes pulse visibly when I was angry or nervous.

In death, it looked even worse. My fingertips were chilly against that spot and my own stomach clenched. I knew I would have to be even more careful with Abby, for she might get careless. She might genuinely believe that she could tolerate this awful face. It would be difficult for both of us if she thought that and ended up being wrong.

I turned and sank into the tub. I was dead, but I didn't need to smell like death. The more bearable I was for Abby to be around, the more we could accomplish. With the mask firmly in place and with my hair clean and combed properly, I was almost tolerable to look at. Once I was clean, I parted my hair to one side and combed it so that it hid the bald spot where the worst of my deformity was. Then, I fixed the mask firmly in place. _There._

Now I simply had to find something to do while I waited for morning to come.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: I got stuck every time I tried to write out the details of this operation, so I decided to skip over the boring stuff like who was going to do what with the opera house so that it would go onto better things. Hope that doesn't bother anyone. Sorry about the lack of updates…I had a few life events that temporarily left me with writer's block.

Charlie had never quite figured out just how he'd ended up in France. The few details that he could remember involved a constantly drunken state and a short-lived marriage to a girl who had taken him to the cleaners. Amazingly enough, he'd found work renovating and building. The work was hard, the hours were long, and he usually only ended up with jobs that no one else would take. There wasn't a day that he didn't thank God for it—he was sure that this was what had kept him out of the gutter and out of the police station. At twenty-seven, he was six feet of lean muscle and slightly olive skin from his Italian mother. Dark wavy hair was often either tucked under a hard hat or hanging carelessly in his face. He had olive green eyes that turned the color of mint in the sunlight.

The thing he cursed himself for most often was that he was a sucker for a pretty face.

He had found himself gathering up a team for the burned out opera house. All the while, he had wondered how he'd gotten himself into such a mess. The girl's instructions had been quite bizarre—she seemed paranoid of anyone setting foot near the basement. She'd come to his office with that windblown head of dark curls and equally dark eyes filled with exhaustion. Something about her nervousness endeared him—she was as skittish as a rabbit. He was hooked instantly. If she passed him while he was working, he would try to get her to talk. She rarely said more than two sentences to him.

Charlie was also aware of the creepy, edgy feeling that he was being watched. As the debris was swept away and cleared, the broken chandelier replaced, the inside of the opera house gutted and rebuilt, he could swear he felt a pair of eyes on the back of his neck at all times. Sometimes he would think he saw someone if he turned his head fast enough.

_Don't get like that,_ he scolded himself, _you've been in old houses and old scary buildings before. It's just a job._

He came down from the ladder he'd been standing on and wiped his face with a dingy-looking paper towel. It was time for a break…his hands were already shaking from hunger. Charlie noticed movement out of the corner of his eye and turned his head.

The girl was walking past. Her eyes were focused straight ahead as if she were listening intently to something. Curious to see what she was after, he quietly started to follow her. Something must have given him away, for she jumped like a startled cat. He gave her his most charming smile.

She merely stared at him. It wasn't even an up-and-down-appreciation stare.

"I was just curious," Charlie said, somewhat unsettled by the look, "does this place have any good ghost stories?"

Abby laughed, but it sounded forced.

"Of course. What's an old opera house without a good ghost story?" she said, her voice tight with feigned enthusiasm.

"Care to fill me in?"

She shrugged quickly.

"Well, I'm sure there were people that died in the fire when the chandelier fell."

Charlie remembered the chandelier…it seemed to bother Abby quite a bit that the only way they could get it out was to hack it into pieces. He'd almost been sorry to do so.

"Yeah, but why did the chandelier fall? I saw the size of those chains and ropes. That didn't look like an accident to me."

Abby forced a smile.

"Well…no one ever said it was."

"What happened, then? Someone must have been responsible."

"How would I know? I wasn't around when it happened," she said. Charlie frowned, noticing the defensiveness in her voice.

"Okay then."

She stuffed her hands into her pockets and turned away from him. After nearly three months, he barely knew her past her name. Charlie was a stubborn man, but he had to admit that she gave him chills. He knew that look…it was the look of a woman with a past. She had secrets.

The phantom was just out of sight in the shadowy area where there hadn't been any work done. His intense amber eyes seemed to glow more intensely when he heard the conversation. Abby, of course, was eluding Charlie's questions as much as she could. The boy was going to be trouble…it appeared that he would need to do some pest control if this continued.

Almost two months went by without any accidents or events to concern anyone. Abby knew that their luck was holding out extraordinarily well for now but it wouldn't always be the case. She felt the blood drain out of her face when Charlie complained about missing a worker.

"He was here this morning," Charlie told her, "and no one's seen him since."

"Maybe he had something else come up," Abby said hopefully. She could feel the Phantom's intense gaze on her from wherever he was hiding. After the workers had left the opera house for the night, Abby waited on her spectral guide to make an appearance.

"All right, where is he?" Abby sighed.

"Gone."

She stared at him.

"You didn't…"

"Of course not. I need these fools to finish rebuilding. I only gave the boy a good scare."

Abby resisted the urge to shake her head. Instead, she decided not to comment. It was an improvement, after all.

"Is everything the way you want it?" she asked.

"It will do," he said flatly. For him to compliment something, it would have to be far better than average.

"It's been several weeks now," Abby said, "and I still don't know what to call you."

His mind nearly stopped working. As she stood bathed in the candlelight, he remembered the day that Christine had asked for his name. He could see the Christine genes coming out in her…the way she stood, the way her lips pressed together as if trying to figure out a puzzle, and the way she glanced up at him.

He was looking at something else when she looked up. Right now, the opera house was a scarred mess where the charred walls had been stripped out. It pained him to see it so, but it wouldn't be this way forever.

"Erik," he said quietly, "Erik is my given name though it has been a very long time since anyone called me by it."

Abby nodded. She realized he was looking at a painting of Christine that had been retrieved from the ashes in the other room. He seemed to glide weightlessly over to it. Either she was hallucinating or he had turned almost transparent…his fingers brushed away the invading ashes.

"It was her, wasn't it?" Abby asked. His silence told her that it was. When he turned to face her, she saw weariness in his glowing eyes.

"Yes," he replied, "she was the very last one. I heard her voice before I drew my last breath. She kept her promise and brought the ring back."

Abby took the painting from him and studied it. The burning embers of his yellow eyes never once lost their intensity, but the sadness coming from them pulsed over her heart in waves. She physically felt her throat constrict and unshed tears begin to burn in her own eyes.

"She's what holds you here, isn't she?"

A knife-like pain rippled through her stomach and she realized that it had come from Erik.

"I don't want that…Charlie…around unless he is working," Erik said acidly, "we've had too many close calls as it is."

"He wouldn't go where I told him not to," Abby said dismissively.

"You are not to see him outside of this opera house."

Abby's blood thrummed hotly through her veins and she stared at Erik. Though she'd resented being held here, she hadn't acknowledged it until now.

"Who are you to tell me who I can and can't go out with? He's a nice guy!" Abby said sharply.

A blast of heat radiated from Erik—it scorched her face like an invisible flame. His eyes became fierce and hot once again.

"I may be related to Christine but that doesn't mean you can treat me like you treated her! I'm not afraid of you!" Abby snapped.

She was lying and he knew it. He could smell the slight saltiness on her skin as she began to perspire. He could hear her heart quickening, pounding against her ribcage in a desperate attempt to break free. He could see her pupils dilate despite the darkness of her eyes and the dim lighting. She was much braver than Christine…and it did nothing for his sudden bout of temper. The heat continued to radiate from him, but at least he wasn't choking her this time.

"It's my damn money!" she said loudly, "And I can take it away just as easily as I gave it!"

She blacked out. Erik watched her strong, solid form crumple to the floor when she could no longer bear the mental attacks. He was still shaking in fury, but the waves of heat were no longer there. Puzzled, he knelt next to her.

Her skin was flushed dark red and perspiration shone on her skin. He could see wet spots in her clothing. His icy hand brushed her cheek only to withdraw it as though he'd been burned. It was as if she'd caught some unnaturally high fever that turned her body into an incinerator.

"Foolish girl," he muttered awkwardly, easing his arms underneath her. He carried her upstairs to the room that she'd claimed as her own. There wasn't much to the room currently; an old futon bed that she'd bought second hand was shoved in the corner. Sitting on a simple rolling desk was a second-hand laptop that a friend had fixed and given to her as a gift. A miniature refrigerator with a microwave stacked on top was next to the desk. The one chair in the room was an office chair that was so worn that he could make out the butt-print in the seat cushioning. Though Erik often came to find her if something displeased him, it was the first time he'd bothered to study the room. Laying Abby on what passed for her bed, he shook his head. Shortly after he'd lain a cold rag on her forehead and force-fed her some water, she began to revive.

"Erik, sometimes I hate you. You know that?"

Her voice was groggy and heavy from exhaustion. She probably wouldn't remember saying. Erik's eyes narrowed as he pressed the water bottle to her lips again.

_Sometimes I hate me too, _he thought irritably.


	8. Chapter 8

When Abby woke the next morning, she seemed to be alone.

"Erik?" she called out. There was no response. She could hear the faint sounds of hammering and construction going on downstairs. She was changing out of her pajamas when she caught sight of herself in the mirror.

"Ugh…" she groaned. Her face was nightmarishly pale, probably as a result of Erik's accidental attack on her. She couldn't quite shake the image of how his amber eyes seemed to blaze like fire when he was angry. It scared her, but she didn't want him to know that.

"Why couldn't I have gotten a nice ghost like Casper?" she muttered.

She wished she didn't have to go all the way next door for food, but she would have to for now. She didn't have anything left over to heat up. Running her fingers through her hair to try and tame it, she retrieved her keys and exited her sparse room.

"Hey," a familiar voice called. She noticed Charlie as he was coming in the same door she was about to leave through. He was holding a bag and two cups.

"You're here early," she said stupidly.

"Yeah. Wanna have breakfast with me?"

He offered her one of the cups. The scent of authentic Parisian coffee wafted out. The bag had some freshly baked pastries. Grateful, she took the cup and followed him. The other construction workers were making small talk as they worked. She bit into her pastry and chewed slowly. Why did food taste so much better when you didn't have to pay for it? The coffee warmed her insides and she suddenly didn't feel so pale and shaky.

"Wow…" she said, looking around finally, "you guys work fast."

Though the details still needed to be taken care of, the main entrance almost looked as good as new. They would be starting on the burned-out theater before long. If it looked half as good as this, the place would be usable before long. She imagined the plush velvet seats, the gold glittering statues, and the rich colors.

A flicker of yellow caught her eye. It was gone as quickly as it started—she guessed that it had been Erik.

"You're always either down here or holed up in your office," Charlie remarked, "what do you say we get the Hell out of this place later and get some dinner?"

Abby's stomach tightened. She wondered if Erik was listening.

"I'll think about it," she said noncommittally.

"Well, if you want to think some more, I'll be at that nice little place on the corner and I'll save you a seat," he said with a wink, "and you can think about sharing a bottle of wine with me."

She swallowed hard.

"We'll see. If you'll excuse me, I have some things to check on."

Charlie watched her walk away. Something was wrong and he could feel it, but he couldn't put his finger on it. She seemed afraid of something…

Abby retrieved the painting of Christine and took it to the museum where they had people that specialized in restoring paintings. After getting their promise that they would take very good care of it, she stopped at the antique shop next door.

A very old piano sat in the corner. It had been lovingly restored by patient hands. The keys were real ivory and polished to a bright shine. She ran her fingers over them.

"It was at the opera house during the fire," the saleswoman said in French, "see the date carved here?"

Abby nodded. Though her own French was pitiful, she was rapidly improving. Taking the lessons online definitely helped.

"How much?" she asked.

The woman gave her the price. Abby was surprised to hear how low it was.

"Rumor has it that anything from the opera house is cursed. I can't get rid of anything from there. It seemed a shame to waste such fascinating history…"

"It is, isn't it? Well, I'm the new owner of the Opera House," Abby told her, "I think these things should be put back in their rightful places."

Two hours later, the large delivery truck backed up to the door and some husky men hauled everything inside. Erik watched from the shadows as Abby led them to a temporary storage area that had already been repaired. She made sure that plastic sheets were placed over everything to keep the dust out. He didn't come out of the shadows until she had left. Then, he began to inspect everything that she had brought in.

His fingers trailed thoughtfully over the old piano. Yes, he remembered this…he remembered many of the other items as well. This piano had been used by the singing coach when Christine was a young girl to help her train her voice. It was shortly after that when he'd all but taken over and given her _real _lessons.

He smoothed the sheet back over the ancient piano and lifted another. This was the dresser that Christine had been sitting at the night that she'd first met him in person…it was the night of her debut. Pain mixed with pleasure was potent and intoxicating. One memory always led to another.

Oh, how he wished he'd done things differently. He remembered how volatile his temper had been with her. He remembered his gross overreaction to her pulling his mask off and how she'd begun to fear him after that. He thought of Abby and how he could hurt her without so much as touching her.

He heard talking outside in the hallway. He faded back into the shadows when the door opened.

"Nothing quite takes the place of the original," Abby was telling Charlie, "so I had some of the original things brought back in. What do you think?"

The way he was smiling at her made Erik sick.

"I don't know how exactly you did it, but that's pretty cool."

He moved to touch her back, but she pulled away under the pretense of having seen something in the corner of the room. Though she couldn't see Erik, she sensed him. She didn't want to risk Charlie's health if Erik lost his cool again.

"We found some of the old costumes and props, too," he told her, "you should go check them out."

"I will…eventually. I know you're busy but I just wanted to show you these things. I'll let you get back to work now."

The dismissal in her voice was clear. Irritated and disappointed, Charlie left and wondered what her problem was. Erik silently materialized from the shadows as Abby stood with her back facing the door. Her shoulders were slumped and the annoyance radiated from her.

_One day you will thank me,_ he thought, _one day, you'll see all that you've become and you'll be grateful to me. I'm making you one of the most powerful women in Paris._

The way she stood reminded him so much of Christine. Christine had taken exactly that posture when Erik had told her that she wasn't allowed to see Raoul again.

"I dropped the painting off today," Abby said, not turning around, "they said they'd be very, very careful with it. I picked out a new frame. Do you have anymore that you want restored?"

Erik thought about the paintings downstairs in his home. He had surrounded himself with beautiful things in an attempt to forget how ugly he was.

"Yes."

"If you'll bring them up for me, I'll take them in."

She waited for him to say something about Charlie, but he didn't. She was staring at her reflection in a full-length mirror and was surprised to see that she'd lost weight and was pale in the face. Behind her, Erik's glowing amber eyes shone out from his mask.

"I miss my home," she said finally.

"_This_ is your home," he reminded her.

"No, it isn't. This place is my mask. It isn't who I really am."

A moment of silence passed between them.

"Everyone everywhere wears at least one mask per day," Erik told her.

She turned to look at him.

"Some of us more than others."

His floating, spectral form was slightly transparent. She could sort of see the outline of the door through him.

"How long do I have to wear yours for?"

It was a potent question.

"Only until you have your own."

It was the first conversation they'd had in a long time where something bad hadn't happened to her. Abby was beginning to see how Christine had fallen under his spell; sometimes he spoke very cryptically. There was power and pain together that made you both sympathize with and fear him.


	9. Chapter 9

The theater was now almost completely restored—the only things needed were the finishing touches. If she could just get that and the backstage area in working order, she could use some of the profits to expand the renovations outward. The lobby would also need to be put back in working order. People tended to get rather cranky when there weren't any working restrooms available.

She dropped into bed that night, exhausted. Soon, she would need to audition actors and actresses. Erik had not yet said anything about that, but she was sure he'd have more than a few opinions. With everything going ahead of schedule, it would be sooner than later.

She had a very odd dream that night.

_ She sat up. She had been sleeping on a bed of red silk spreads. There was a black gauzy curtain around the bed to help keep some of the draft out. Candles flickered everywhere—some of them had wax that had dripped out of the holders and formed small stalactites as the wax had hardened. It was evident that no one was a house keeper around here. For some odd reason, the strings of wax repulsed her. She resisted the urge to go break them off and toss them into a waste bin._

_ Instead, her curiosity overcame her. She heard the most beautiful organ music from the next room. It was so beautiful and so sad…it almost brought tears to her eyes. She regretted moving from her warm nest, for the pervasive cold seeped through her thin satin slippers. She pushed it from her thoughts and moved toward the sound._

_ There he was at the organ. He wore a high-collared cape that covered most of his neck and she could not see his face. An odd sensation that she knew this man pricked at her memory._

_ She came up to him, drawn to his dark beauty. As though it might be the last time, he leaned into her touch, seeming to try and block out all other sensations. His hands did not stop moving on the keys, but his eyes closed as his cheek grazed against her fingertips. She expected warm skin, but a cold, hard surface greeted her instead. This man wore a mask!_

_ Who was this stranger? She had to know. She had to know why he hid his face. Her fingers slid down to the edge of the mask that hid nearly everything but his mouth and pried it loose._

Abby woke in a cold sweat—she could not remember what she had seen after that. She only knew that her heart was thundering and that the adrenaline would likely not let her go back to sleep for a long time. Sighing, she looked at the clock—and immediately wished she hadn't.

4:27 AM.

She carefully untangled herself from her sheets and got up. She wore a ratty old nightgown that she'd had since she was a teenager that still bore food stains from her nighttime comfort-cooking sessions. She wished dearly that the Opera Populaire's kitchen was in working order. There was no way she was setting foot in there with no dishwasher or garbage disposal!

Instead, she moved to look through her mini fridge. Nothing was there—typical. She sighed and wished she were a child again and the cabinets automatically seemed to refill themselves.

She had no books to read, nothing to snack on, not even something for a hot cup of tea. Instead, she retrieved her laptop. The bluish-white glow nearly blinded her at first after being in total darkness, but her eyes slowly adjusted. Bored, she typed "ghost-hunting" into the search engine and watched the page load.

Most of the websites seemed either boring, silly, or just plain weird. There were accounts of women being sexually molested by demons, people experiencing poltergeist activity, and listings for shows on television. Abby rolled her eyes—not one of these sounded like Erik. Thank God for that…he might be violent and mean sometimes, but he had never done anything like _that._ At five-thirty, she decided she'd had enough and went back to bed. Another dream came.

_She was trembling, standing in front of the mirror. She wore a wedding dress, which under any other circumstances would have been beautiful. She looked down at her finger…the ring there was like her prison cuff. She would be forced to wed a man who was insane…a monster._

_ Her mind moved to her wedding night. Oh, God…what would he do to her? Would he force her to do it if she didn't want to? She shuddered and went cold all over. She gulped and the bile rose in her throat. Regardless of what his face looked like, she didn't want to have his children or be in his bed. He would always be a monster because his hatred had made his heart so ugly…_

_ Trying very hard not to cry, she steeled herself for what she would have to do. Raoul was unlikely to find her, so she would have to make the best of it. She would have to marry this terrible man and hope that time and kindness would chip away at the hardness in his heart. Perhaps she could teach him how to love a person properly._

_ "Come on, my angel! You musn't keep me waiting!" Erik's voice was tinged with impatience. He opened the door slowly, giving her a chance to cover herself if she didn't yet have the dress on. Her eyes met his and reflexively filled with tears. Through the curtain of moisture, she saw the unnaturally bright gold. He had yellow eyes like a cat…she had never much cared for cats. They were creepy and so was he. _

_ He reached out and took her hand in his. Hers was chilly from fear, his was cold like normal. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly._

_ "You look stunning," he said, obviously satisfied._

_ She didn't answer. What was there to say? _

_ "You're sad…yes, I know," he said, his breath grazing her cheek as he leaned in, "but someday you will understand. One of these days, you will be happy again."_

_ Would she? The contact was too much. As his lips grazed her forehead, the tears she swore she would not spill cascaded down her cheeks. _

_ "Please don't make me do this…" she begged, voice choked with emotion._

_ He appeared not to be listening and instead led her out of the room._

_ "Ah…look, my dear! We have a guest!" he said triumphantly._

_ "RAOUL!" she cried, tearing her hand out of the Phantom's and running to the gate. Raoul was caught in one of the traps. He would soon drown if someone didn't get him loose. _

_ The Phantom smiled wickedly, insanely._

_ "Christine," he sighed, "leave him. We have somewhere to go, remember?"_

_ She turned to him, rage overcoming her fear._

_ "Let him go, you disgusting, ill-mannered gargoyle!" _

_ Her insult only made his smile seem to get nastier. _

_ "Why should I?"_

_ Raoul was holding his chin above the water, but he would be pulled under soon._

_ "Because I love him! Does that mean nothing to you?"_

_ Apparently it didn't._

_ "Marry me and never look back," the phantom hissed, "and I will let your precious Vicomte go. I expect there to be no arguments after this."_

_ "Don't do it, Christine!" Raoul yelled just before he disappeared underwater._

_ "I'll do it," she sighed._

_ The Phantom marched over to a lever and tugged it. The water rapidly spilled out of the chamber and left Raoul coughing and gasping at the bottom. She ran into the water, not heeding the expensive dress, and ran to him. _

_ "Christine…you just sold your soul to the devil," Raoul choked._

_ She bowed her head. So she had…but he was safe. She held him one last time before the Phantom marched over and pried her out of his grasp._

She mumbled and pulled away from someone trying to shake her. Her vision blurred as she tried to look up. The sick feeling she'd been feeling in the dream persisted. In fact, her stomach hurt horribly.

"Abby, are you all right?"

It surprised her that it was Charlie's voice she heard and not Erik's. Alarmed, she tried to sit up and couldn't.

"No…" she gasped right before she threw up.

Charlie didn't wait any longer. He hauled her out of the bed and carried her downstairs.

"Don't—stop," she choked, but he ignored her.

"I'm taking you to the hospital no matter what you say."

He ordered one of the workers to open the car door for him and placed her in the passenger side.

Golden-amber eyes watched from the shadows as the car sped away.


End file.
